


Cleansing Candlelight

by jazzmckay



Category: RWBY
Genre: Background Roman/Junior, Canon-Typical Violence, Families of Choice, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nonverbal Neo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 11:53:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22191841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzmckay/pseuds/jazzmckay
Summary: Others cannot be relied on for anything—not shelter, protection, happiness, love, or anything else—and Neo has known this since she was a little girl who couldn’t fathom the meaning of home.
Relationships: Neopolitan & Roman Torchwick
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Cleansing Candlelight

The first lesson she remembers learning is the meaning of pain.

After that: misdirection.

She can’t get hit if she’s fast enough, if she anticipates movement and dodges before the blows come. She learns to fight by learning to dance. Right, left, spin, arms poised, feet nimble. Don’t ever stop, don’t ever hesitate, don’t let another person get close enough to harm—and if that isn’t enough, disappear behind a mirror that won’t shatter until she’s long gone.

Her life is survival, and so she learns to survive. She learns, and learns, and learns, until she’s impenetrable, unshakable, unable to be torn apart or shaped by the whims of others.

* * *

She learns that everyone has ulterior motives. Everyone is the center of their own universe and the rest of the world only exists to play a role, if they’re useful. She was little more than an accessory to her parents, and she didn’t shed a tear for them when they died. The orphanage was no better, and she’s glad it went up in flames. The bandits who laid siege to the town had use for her—they didn’t hide the reason they left her alive. She stole, killed, and misdirected for them, and she never forgot that she was only a tool to them.

Without loyalty, they can’t expect her to stay once she’s prepared to move on.

Vale presents a new beginning where she can be the master of her own universe. The city is bustling, full of people to con and objects to steal.

It’s also more protected. More militant. People in Vale have learned, too—learned how to defend themselves.

“Hey! Get back here!”

She sprints down the busy street, swerving around shocked civilians. She flicks Hush out at her side, opening the canopy taut, and swings it around to cover her back in the nick of time. The crack of a gunshot causes civilians to scatter, and she feels the bullet ricochet off her parasol.

The street opens into a square with a fountain at its center and a congregation of people going about their usual lives, enjoying the afternoon sun. She closes her parasol and slips into a crowd on the other side of the square.

Hiding in plain sight is easier, in such a big city.

But it isn’t infallible.

“Over there!”

She scowls to herself as she ducks back out of the crowd. The civilians part for her, alerted by the yelling, and she escapes into an alleyway to find cover and a new plan. If this can only end in a fight, she will fight—on her own terms.

As she takes a running leap at the bottom platform of a fire escape, she activates her semblance and leaves a mirror of herself behind. She grabs onto the grated metal and swings herself up onto the landing, crouched on the high ground.

The two thugs enter the mouth of the alleyway.

“Finally stopped running, huh?” one of them mocks as they stalk forward.

The other says, “You must be new around here if you think you can steal from us.”

She poises her fingers over the handle of her parasol, at the end of the blade concealed within its pole.

Behind her, a window opens.

“Well lookee here.”

She whirls around to see a man leaning across an apartment windowsill, his hair a shock of red and his smile crooked with amusement. The more noise he makes, the less likely the thugs are to stay distracted by her illusion.

Eyes sharp in warning, she presses her index finger to her lips.

In response, the man arcs an eyebrow and raises his hands, palms front-facing in surrender.

She turns from him, unsheathes the blade from her parasol, and steps up onto the railing of the fire escape.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” one of the thugs asks the stationary image of her.

Sunlight glints over her blade as she steps off the fire escape, parasol unfolded above her head.

The mirror image shatters. She crashes into her opponent, her blade meeting minimal aura resistance as it slides through his throat. Both of them fall to the ground, her landing on his back while he gasps around blood and steel.

The second thug startles and opens fire. She blocks the onslaught with Hush as she rolls off the first, using the movement to pull her blade free.

_Be nimble._

As the man reloads, she darts forward, snapping the parasol canopy shut and aiming a strike. He brings an arm up, blocking and shoving against the force of her blow, sending her smaller frame skidding back over the cobblestone alley.

He fires again.

_Don’t get hit._

She dodges, dancing on her toes as the bullets zip past her. Closing the distance with a lunge, she swings her blade across the man’s midsection. He swerves back out of her reach and keeps firing. At this distance, she has no choice but to go on the defensive and wait for another window of opportunity.

A flash of white crosses in front of her and disappears behind the pink lace of her parasol, followed by a thin line that goes ramrod straight.

The thug lets out an angered cry and then his shots are going wide, arm yanked out of position by a hook around his wrist.

She readies her blade and thrusts forward.

The gunshots stop and the man falls to the ground with a thud, sending the alley into muted calm.

The line snaps with movement, dislodging the hook and recalling it to its owner. She looks up at the fire escape and sees the red-haired man sitting on the grated banister, holding his reassembled cane. He smirks down at her.

“That was fun. We should do it again, sometime!”

She glares back. She had it handled; she was only waiting for her moment. She didn’t need unsolicited help from a stranger, from a man she doesn’t know and can’t trust, a man she now owes.

“Or not,” he says, shrugging.

He’s so animated about it—arms out and whole upper body shifting with the action, like he’s putting on a show. Like he enjoys being the center of attention. He twirls his cane around and plants it on the fire escape, balancing himself as he stands and returns to his window.

“Better take off before someone calls the authorities!” he says, and then he slips back into the apartment.

The window shuts after him. He's gone.

Just like that.

Everyone has ulterior motives. Everyone wants something from her. No one lets her walk away, not after seeing her fight and use her semblance. She’s strong, useful, deceptive.

This is a man with no qualms about killing, a man who chose her over the thugs for a reason she can’t guess.

 _We should do it again, sometime._ Those words have proven to be as frivolous as everything else he said, with no actual expectations tied around them.

She doesn’t know what to make of all that, and her curiosity is piqued, despite herself.

She has learned to be self-serving, to keep to herself and to avoid unnecessary trouble. But she has also learned that it pays to see the big picture, to understand the background before making a decision about the foreground.

Sirens wail in the distance. She sheathes her blade, tucks Hush under her arm, and takes off down the alley, into the shadows.

* * *

She knows from experience that she can learn a lot by fading into the background and observing. She is silent, so she goes unnoticed. She is attentive, so she can find the information she seeks without needing to ask for anyone’s help.

Within a month of her first run in with Roman Torchwick, she learns a lot about the man and his operation. He is a thief above all, and a good one at that. His life is comfortable, for someone who only gains through unlawful means, and his abilities garner respect. He has a liaison with a downtown nightclub owner and they do jobs together often.

It’s in Hei "Junior" Xiong's club that she and Torchwick interact for the second time.

Hidden behind green eyes and raven-coloured pigtails, she has spent the evening dancing beneath strobing lights. From a distance, she watches Torchwick drink at the bar and converse with Junior until he calls it a night.

She follows him into the frigid outdoors, watches him light up a cigar. An expensive brand that he didn’t pay for.

After only a brief glance at her, he returns his gaze forward, eyes on the city skyline. “I wondered when you would finally approach me.”

She frowns, instinctively bringing her arms up over her chest, defensive.

“Relax,” Torchwick drawls. “I’m not offended. Impressed, actually. It took me over a week to spot you the first time, and another few days to recognise you.”

She runs a hand over her black hair, unsettled by how he saw through her disguise. No one has ever noticed her before, once she changes such major aspects of her appearance.

“So, I have to wonder: what is it you’ve been looking for? And does this,” he says, gesturing between the two of them, “mean you’ve found it?”

There’s no point in upholding her fake visage any longer; she lets the disguise shimmer away, revealing her usual outfit and dual-toned eyes. In response to Torchwick’s question, she shrugs.

“You aren’t very talkative, are you?”

She narrows her eyes at him, challenging.

He waves a hand, casual and dismissive. “No problem with that. So few people know when to listen instead of speak.”

From what she can tell, Torchwick is one of the very people he is decrying. He speaks enough for the both of them. She tilts her head and purses her lips, giving him an unimpressed look.

Torchwick laughs, deep and warm under his breath. “And few people can take me to task without a single word spoken, bravo.”

No matter what she does, no matter how she challenges him, he responds in good spirits. There’s an easy confidence to him, a relaxed nature that makes him unlike anyone else she has met over the years.

She has done her observing, and has found him to be _good_.

Not in the eyes of the law, but in something more personal than that, something intrinsic. He isn’t cruel—he can grow angry, at times, but doesn’t wield it like her mother did. He has vices, but doesn’t let them consume him like the orphan keeper did. He is dangerous, but not in the same way the bandit leader was.

If he had asked her to join him, that afternoon, she would have denied him. Would have created an illusion and would have been gone too quick for him to pursue. But now that she has watched for herself, she feels—for the very first time—like she has found someone she would ally with.

Even now, he doesn’t ask. To her silence, he resumes smoking, filling the air between them with grey swirls.

She does the only thing she can think to do and holds out her hand.

Torchwick regards it. Meets her eye. “Interesting,” he says.

She raises her eyebrows, urging.

“Fine, if you insist.”

He takes her hand and they shake.

His palm—gloved in white—is still warm despite the winter chill. His grip is strong, but not domineering, and he doesn’t hold on for too long.

“I’m guessing you already know exactly who I am, but I still don’t know much about you, do I?” he says. “Care to give me your name?”

Over the years, she has been called a handful of different things—some names, some not. She has no attachment to any of them, and has had no reason to claim them as her own, no reason to share them with someone else. All she has to offer Torchwick is a blank look.

“You’re kidding me.” Torchwick looks her up and down as he takes a drag of his cigar. “How’s Neopolitan, then? Neo for short.”

It works well enough, and fits her far better than what most others have called her. She nods.

Torchwick grins, slow and crooked. “Alright, Neo. I think this will be the beginning of a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

* * *

Neo doesn’t speak—has never spoken, that she can remember. She thinks she might be able to, if she tries, but she isn’t interested in doing so. Her silence is a part of her now, as fundamental as her semblance. Misdirect, obscure, don’t be perceived.

This teaches her that she can’t expect to be heard if she doesn’t speak out loud.

Others will assume she has nothing to add, no opinions to hold, no preferences or complaints or suggestions, because she doesn’t express them verbally.

When Torchwick explains operations and gives his orders to the team, Neo listens, commits the information to memory, and never fails to do as asked. Never speaks a word against him—he has yet to give an order she disagrees with.

“Anyone have questions? Anything to add?”

No one says anything. Their target is a weapon manufacturing plant Neo snuck into once before, on her own. When Torchwick first brought it up as a possibility, she imparted that it was a worthwhile hit—she won’t have any trouble with this job. As for Junior’s boys, they listen to Torchwick like they listen to Junior, and that’s that.

“Neo?”

Everyone in the room looks at her. One of Junior’s boys steps to the side, no longer casting her half in shadow as she stands among men who are all over a foot taller than her and broader in shoulder to match.

She tilts her head, giving Torchwick a considering look.

“You’ve hit this place before,” he says, gesturing to the map on the table between them. “If you have insight, let’s see it.”

There’s a beat of silence, but Torchwick has never been impatient with her.

Neo steps forward, her heels clicking against the concrete of the storage room floor, and appraises the map of the plant buildings. She sets Hush down on the table and picks up a red marker instead, spinning it over her fingers before popping the cap off and lowering it to the parchment.

She places a large red X over one entry point, and a checkmark next to another. Draws a little cartoony depiction of a mech at the front. Inside the blueprint lines of a building, she highlights a useful pathway and adds stars to mark the locations of valuable equipment.

As she replaces the cap on the marker, she gives Torchwick a close-lipped smile.

“Excellent,” he says as he brings his hands together, threading his fingers and cracking his knuckles. “In that case…”

He adds an addendum to his orders, shuffles the teams around some. He puts Neo against the mech and she swings her parasol back and forth at her side, filled with anticipatory energy.

“Everyone got it?” Torchwick asks the group.

There’s a chorus of mumbled agreements from Junior’s boys and Neo gives a steady nod when Torchwick looks to her.

“Let’s go, then. They won’t know what hit ‘em.”

* * *

Neo has learned that nothing in life is free. From an early age, her options were to do without or to take from others. Working for Torchwick has allowed her more comfort than she has had her entire life, but it isn’t a steady lifestyle and doesn’t make it easy to live in the world above the underground.

“Let me drive you home,” Torchwick says one evening when thunder and hail roar over the loud music of Junior’s nightclub. “Don’t think your umbrella is going to cut it.”

With enough projection of aura, the parasol will be safe, but it isn’t worth the effort if Torchwick is offering. Neo nods, and uses her Scroll to give Torchwick an address.

Torchwick raises an eyebrow when he reads her message. “Isn’t this building condemned?”

A few years back, Grimm broke through the perimeter of the Kingdom and a Nevermore made a mess of the roof. It still hasn’t been rebuilt and for now, it’s secure enough for Neo’s purposes. In time, she will need to move—and hopefully upgrade—but she has lived in worse places.

She shrugs.

Torchwick stops her before they pass through the doors out into the stormy night. “I don’t think so, sweetheart, not on a night like this.”

For the term of endearment, Neo glares at him, but for the concern, an odd sensation flutters in her chest, the warmest she has felt outside of adrenaline and triumph.

But she isn’t going to waste what money she has on an apartment, yet, and there’s nothing she can do about it tonight. She’s still new to Vale, still new to Torchwick’s operation, and she needs to act measured.

Brushing past him, Neo swings the canopy of her parasol over her head and exits the building. If Torchwick is going to be difficult, she can find her own way home.

“Hey, now,” Torchwick says, raising his voice to carry over the cacophony and hurrying back to her side. He lays a light hand on her shoulder, guiding her, and she allows it. “Condemned building it is.”

They get into his car together and he pulls away from the nightclub. Rain is a constant stream down the windshield and hail strikes the roof in a staccato, filling the silence between them. Torchwick drives slower than usual, the low visibility forcing a steady hand.

As they’re driving through the center of the city, he says, “I have a spare room in my apartment.”

Torchwick may be someone Neo considers a good person, but she wouldn’t call him generous; he’s fair with everyone’s cut of their bounties, but it goes no further than that.

And Neo doesn’t want his charity any more than she wanted his help the afternoon they met. She crosses her left leg over the right and faces the window at her side, watching the lights of the city blur as they speed past.

Torchwick sighs and says no more until he’s pulling to a stop in front of the building Neo calls home.

“Offer still stands, if you change your mind.”

Neo pushes the door open, pops her parasol, and steps out into the rain. She masks herself with her semblance and enters the building, listening to the sound of Torchwick’s tires skid across the wet pavement, splashing puddles onto the sidewalks.

The bottom floor of the building is barren, dusty, and cold, but there’s nothing wrong with it, otherwise.

Yet Neo can’t relax into her second-hand mattress and salvaged blankets, can’t ignore the crack of thunder and flash of lightning. The last time she experienced a storm like this, she was still at the orphanage—a place that was more secure than her condemned building, but far more unhappy.

Staying with Torchwick could be both. It’s an odd thought, a foreign concept. Secure, happy. Not alone.

Neo burrows further in her blankets, pulling scratchy wool over her head.

Sharing the same roof has implications.

They are business associates—partners—nothing more. Thieves don’t have friends; bonds make things messy, and Neo likes to have her affairs in order, under control.

To lose sight of that is to admit defeat.

Or it might mean she’s found someone trustworthy.

She doesn’t know what to do.

Hail slams against the window on the other side of the room and Neo imagines the glass shattering, like one of her illusions, broken down by the force of something stronger. Rainwater has started to leak through the ceiling in the corner, bubbling the paint.

Neo doesn’t want to stay here anymore.

Tossing the blankets off her body, she stands up—the old box spring creaking from the release of weight—and gets dressed.

She goes back into the rain. Catches the railcar to the center of the city, to a familiar square, to the alleyway that started it all.

Despite the weather, Torchwick’s window is open a crack, enough for Neo to slip her fingers beneath and lift. She dispels her aura shield as she climbs into the apartment, shivering at the full brunt of cold air at her back.

The apartment is sleek, decorated in a similar motif to Torchwick’s preference for white and red, a contrast that makes his furniture sharp and modern. Neo moves through the living room with light, tentative steps, approaching the chrome kitchen partitioned by a spotless bar.

From the hallway on the left, Torchwick appears, a smile on his face. He’s dressed down, not as put together as he likes to be in front of an audience, though he has his cane in hand and his hat atop his head. His hair is slick—from rain or shower—and the thin strands of his bangs reveal a shuttered glimpse of scarring beneath, usually hidden. The two of them have more in common than Neo thought: one of them doesn't speak, and the other sees through only one eye.

“I knew you would come around.”

He couldn’t have, not when Neo herself hadn’t. She rolls her eyes.

Torchwick comes into the room, walking straight past her to shut the window she came in through. Like it was left open for a specific reason that has now been fulfilled.

He _did_ know.

Two reactions wage a war in Neo—the fear of being vulnerable crashes against a yearning to be understood.

“Come on,” Torchwick says as he returns to her. “I’ll get you set up.”

Neo nods and follows him into the hallway, to a bedroom that doesn’t look lived in. Bare furniture, no personalisation—empty space that Torchwick has no family to fill. Going up to the bed, Neo runs the tips of her fingers along the pristine sheets. She glances over her shoulder at Torchwick, who is removing a blanket from a chest against the wall.

“Something not to your liking?”

She shakes her head as she sits down on the edge of the bed, taking odd joy in disrupting the neatness. Reaching out, she draws a fingertip along the nightstand, collecting a thin layer of dust.

“What, you expect me to keep an empty room spotless? I’d say we’re too busy for such trivial, domestic things.”

Neo shakes her head again, lips curving into a grin. She waits, lets Torchwick figure it out, because he always figures her out.

When he does, he scoffs. “Don’t turn this around on me.”

Still grinning, Neo rests Hush up against the nightstand and sets to unlacing her boots. He may think she’s sad for living in a condemned building out of convenience, but he’s the one with a fancy home and no one to share it with.

Her being here is—mutually beneficial.

“Ugh,” Torchwick groans before dropping the blanket next to her and leaving the room.

While she removes her boots, Neo listens to the sound of him moving around in the kitchen, surprised to find she likes the background noise of another’s presence. She sets her boots together next to Hush and then stands to unfold the blanket Torchwick left her, draping it over the bed.

When she goes to join him, she leaves her parasol behind, feeling safe enough to allow it out of her sight.

Torchwick is heating something on the stove and Neo hops up onto a barstool to watch, propping her chin on her hand.

A few minutes later, she’s presented with a mug of steaming liquid that looks similar to coffee. She sniffs the steam rising from the surface, finding the aroma pleasing.

“Have you never had hot cocoa before?”

Neo shakes her head.

Torchwick looks appalled. “You’ve led a terrible life.”

As joking as the statement is, there’s a thread of truth to it. Neo circles her hands around the mug and pulls it closer, enjoying the heat radiating through her stiff fingers.

It’s—nice.

She grasps the mug by the handle, blows away some steam, and tries a sip.

The warmth is exactly like coffee, but the taste is far better. Sweet and rich. At the risk of burning her tongue, Neo takes a mouthful. The drink is simultaneously energizing and soothing, making her want to get cozy with the mug held close but also wiggle with delight.

Torchwick huffs an amused breath. “You have such a sweet tooth.”

Neo is too absorbed with the hot cocoa to glare at him or refute his assumption. She doesn’t think she cares to, anyway.

It’s not so bad, having someone welcome her into their home and share nice things without a shred of malice or expectation. She knows better than to think Torchwick wants repayment for any of this, has a feeling in her gut that tells her this is genuine, and she’s allowed to have it.

Nothing in life is free, but some things, she thinks, are freely given.

* * *

The concept of family, as Neo understands it, is a unique kind of prison. Being part of a family means being tied down, trapped, always on edge, always on her toes, waiting for the next altercation.

Others cannot be relied on for anything—not shelter, protection, happiness, love, or anything else—and Neo has known this since she was a little girl who couldn’t fathom the meaning of home.

She waits for the people around her to betray her, waits for the moment everything she has built in Vale crashes into ruin. No matter how settled she feels, no matter how grateful she is, a voice in the back of her head tells her that she can’t expect it to last. When it happens, she’ll be ready; she’s good at moving from one life to another when the previous one shatters. She’s good at being impermanent.

Her mantra is armour against the inevitable: be nimble, be quick…

But it does last. Weeks turn into months, and then she’s been at Roman’s side for a year.

When a threat arises, it isn’t from within, but an outside force.

Neo is sitting by herself on the upper level balcony of Junior’s nightclub when gunshots sound from the front entrance, cutting through the music. Glass rains down from the overhead lights and civilians scream, casting flickering shadows as they scramble off the dancefloor.

Roman is at the bar with Junior.

Parasol flaring open, Neo leaps over the railing of the second floor, descending to the ground level and rolling to break her fall.

Ahead, a group of armed assailants is streaming down the steps, some with submachine guns pointed up at the ceiling and others holding batons at the ready. With the dancefloor vacated, Neo is alone in front of the oncoming danger.

“What now?” she hears Junior roar from behind the bar. “Getting tired of having my club shot up!”

Next to him, Roman is leaning his elbow on the bar top, cane held with the gun barrel pointing at their enemy.

Neo thinks she’s seen them around—they don’t dress in uniform the way Junior’s gang does, but their weapons have a matching colour scheme of blue and silver. A rival gang, making a play for Junior’s territory.

From the bar, Roman takes a shot, catching one’s dominant shoulder in a dust-fueled blast.

The man yells, fumbling his gun to the ground, while others fill out in front of him and return fire.

The pinprick tap of heels against the glass flooring signals the arrival of the twins. They come up on either side of Neo, Melanie with one defensive foot forward and Miltia with her claws raised.

Neo moves first. She covers herself with Hush as she leaps into the fray, collapsing the canopy once she’s in close quarters.

She dances.

Left—a dislocating strike against an elbow.

Right—downswing on her opponent’s weapon.

Spin—the handle of her parasol hooked around an opponent’s wrist and pulled hard enough to slam them into the ground.

Arms poised—Hush extended to block a hail of bullets, to cover Miltia’s flank.

Nimble on her feet—retreat beyond the range of Junior’s homing missiles.

The twins’ blades sing on either side of her and distinctive gunshots drum out from the bar. Neo swings between opponents, avoiding bullets and ducking swipes, lining up shots for Roman when she can.

Melanie takes one too many bullets and her aura flickers in a flash of white. Neo darts in front of her, parasol canopy out to allow her an escape.

In her haste, she loses sight of a target. Arms wrap around her upper body, hauling her into the air and throwing her away, sending her spiraling into the dancefloor. Her grip loosens on her parasol handle and it clatters away, out of reach.

“Neo!”

Roman’s voice sounds clipped between the scratch of abandoned turntables.

Neo lifts herself on hands and knees, making a scramble for Hush. She doesn’t make it far; bullets crash into the glass floor around her, shattering the surface and forcing her to block her face from the spray of shards. She’s pinned.

Returning fire blows the gunman off his feet, but he’s quickly replaced by one of the baton-wielders. With a battle cry, he swings the weapon down at her. She rolls and the end of the baton slams into the floor next to her head.

The man draws back again, malicious grin stretching across his face, amplified by the club’s dynamic lighting.

Neo watches, anticipates.

_Be quick, don’t get hit…_

In almost a blur, Roman is there. Neo’s breath catches in her throat as the baton is stopped by Roman’s palm, silver steel clashing against the undulating red of Roman’s aura.

“That’s quite enough of that,” Roman says.

Up comes the cane in his other hand, and Neo doesn’t need to see the rest. Roman is quick—almost as quick as she is. Unconcerned, Neo turns and makes a dash for Hush, feeling steadier the moment she has it back in her hands.

Roman is trading blows and blocks with his opponent. With superior skill and strength, he forces the man onto the defensive, taking ground with extreme force until the man’s aura flickers out and he falls to the ground.

Bullets pelt from the other side of the dancefloor. Neo watches with wide eyes as Roman sprints and dives for cover behind the base of a pillar, broken glass cascading around him.

She runs.

Homing missiles leave trails of smoke over Neo’s head, exploding into the crowd of attackers as she slides the rest of the way to her destination. Glass clinks beneath her but she’s only focused on one thing—Roman.

He greets her with a smirk. “Fancy meeting you here.”

He can joke all he likes but Neo sees the way he grits his teeth, the way his forehead pinches. She sees right through him and knows he has overextended himself. They need to get into better cover.

She jerks her thumb at the bar.

“Don’t know about that,” Roman says, grimacing. He lets his jacket fall away from his body, revealing a blossom of dark red blooming over his right side.

Neo’s heart pounds in her chest, blood rushing in her ears. No amount of misdirection can help her evade the strike of fear that bowls into her center of gravity, staggering every part of her.

This can’t be how it ends, not here and now, not when she has finally found something good. Not when he jumped straight into the action to protect her, using his aura to take a direct hit for her.

He can’t die. She won’t let him.

Whirling around, she catches sight of Junior reloading his launcher and waves her parasol to get his attention.

Junior holds the huge barrel of his weapon in front of his face, covering himself as he squints across the distance. When he notices the dark red stain on Roman’s shirt, a storm rolls into his expression.

Neo points at him and then Roman. She points at herself and then their rivals who are advancing on their position.

Junior purses his lips, and Neo knows he must want to bash a few heads in—she knows because she feels the same—but one of them is better suited than the other to pull Roman out of harm’s way.

He nods.

Both of them move as one.

Neo sweeps her arm up, channeling as much of herself into the gesture as she can, and changes the landscape of the nightclub around them. In the corner of her eye, she sees Junior hopping the bar, making a run for the pillar, and she trusts him to succeed.

As Junior closes in to heave Roman up into his arms, Neo steps out of cover, hand gripped tight around Hush’s handle.

There are eight left. They can’t see her, not until she jumps the final distance, slamming her heeled boot into one man’s jaw while her illusion splinters into fragments.

She doesn’t like relying on her semblance—the illusions are for escaping when she has no other options—but now she pushes herself to her limits out of double-edged necessity. Both professional and personal.

They won’t take the club. She will make them pay.

Neo disappears into thin air, she throws up distractions, she does everything she can to tilt the odds in her favour. She does it for Junior and his people, for herself, for Roman. Instinct takes over—she lets experience meld with emotion, remains impenetrable, unshakable.

And she wins.

When it’s over, she stumbles to her knees, breathing hard, a throbbing in her skull that makes her long for unconsciousness. Bodies are strewn around her, some still breathing and others not, and the silence is deafening.

The twins come for her, each taking an arm to haul her up and carry her off the dancefloor.

Laying on a table in the storage room, Roman is shirtless and being tended to by one of Junior’s men, pale but at ease, his hat resting next to his head.

Junior is pacing up and down the length of the table, alternating between clenching his fists and running them through his hair.

“Stop moving, you’re making me nauseous,” Roman grumbles.

The twins set Neo down in a chair without a word and become scarce, back to the main room to handle the fallout.

“That was careless, you bastard,” Junior snaps.

Roman’s head lolls to the side, seeking Neo’s gaze. “I wouldn’t say careless.”

Tears spring to her eyes, blurring her vision, and she doesn’t have the energy to care when she blinks and they spill down her cheeks. Roman would have been fine, if he had stayed behind the bar, behind cover. If he hadn’t thrown himself into the line of fire for Neo.

“You would’ve done the same,” Roman says, like he can hear her thoughts. “You did do the same. Went better for you, though, didn’t it? Leadership has made me rusty.”

He laughs, but it morphs into a fit of coughing. Junior stops pacing and rests a hand in the crook of Roman’s elbow, soothing him with a tentative touch. The two have been doing that with increasing frequency lately—little actions they can pretend aren’t happening or don’t mean anything when both of them know full well that they do.

It works, and Roman settles. Junior’s man finishes his patchwork and gathers the med supplies, carrying them away to clean up and leave Roman in the private company of Neo and Junior.

Neo slides her chair closer and rests her arms on the table, dropping her head down to rest while still watching Roman with attentive eyes.

From Roman’s other side, Junior clears his throat. “Hey, thanks for taking care of those guys.” He glances away, staring into the middle distance as he rubs his palm over his shoulder in the same place where Melanie took a shot that broke her aura. “For taking care of us.”

There’s nothing else she could have done. She never considered anything else, because her own well-being isn’t her only focus, anymore.

Roman raises a hand and smacks it against Junior’s stomach. “Look at her when you’re talking to her so you can see her answer.”

Eyes widening, Junior stands up straighter, bringing his attention back to Neo. “Right, sorry. I mean it, thanks.”

Neo gives him a close-lipped smile and nods her head once, pointed and affirming. They worked together and they made it. They’re going to be fine, because they all looked out for each other.

And Neo is happy—happier than she has ever been in her entire life.

She draws her hand across her cheeks, clearing them of tear tracks. Still grinning, she picks up Roman’s hat and puts it on, giving the rim a playful tap.

Roman chuckles and the atmosphere of the room untangles.

The world threatened to crash around her once again, but not in the same way it has before, not in a way that leaves her weathering a storm alone. She’s still standing, and so is Roman—strong, present, permanent, a flame burning bright.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3


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